Epiphany
by Neftzer
Summary: Pre-series. It's New Year's Eve. Where is Bruno Dante, and why isn't he home with his wife Franchetta? What could possibly be more important than that? Prequel to my VISITATION.


_Witchblade_, pre-series. Before my fiction _Visitation_.  
*Rated "J" for Jake McCartey. Adult Themes.

**_Epiphany_**

* * *

**New Year's Eve**--"I'll make the call," Jerry Orlinsky said. 

"What do you mean you'll make the call?" Bruno Dante wanted to know. 

"Just let me at the phone and I'll make the call." 

From behind the desk, Dante looked skeptically at Orlinsky out of the corner of his eye. 

"You and I both know, Bruno, you can't make this call. Minute she picks up the phone it's over--you'll do anything she asks. It's easier I should make the call." 

Dante shrugged and pushed the phone toward the other man. It made no difference to him. "So make the call," he agreed. 

* * *

"Franchetta?" Orlinsky began. "Me and Bruno--something came up--we, uh, we gotta meet a guy. It's gonna take a little time." 

"How long," Franchetta Dante asked, not making it easy for him. 

"I dunno--maybe an hour? Two?" 

"But then he'll be home." 

"Oh, yeah, no problem--I'll have him home right after. Scout's honor." 

"Right after, Jerry. Your word. He's not even supposed to be on-shift tonight." 

"Yes, ma'am," Orlinsky replied. "And, uh, Franchetta?" 

"Yeah, Jerry?" 

"He wanted you to know he's, uh, he's real sorry." 

"I know he is, Jerry." She swallowed back a sigh. "He always is." 

Jerry Orlinsky hung up the phone, placing it back on Dante's well-ordered desk. 

"So?" Dante asked, looking up from some paperwork he had been going over. 

"She's the real deal, there, Bruno. And tough, to boot. The real deal," Orlinsky said, looking beyond Dante's shoulder, out the office window. "What do you think she's got cookin' for tonight, huh?" 

Dante grabbed his coat and extended a hand toward his partner, Orlinsky, one finger pointing at the other man as he moved toward the door to leave. "Leave it right there, Jerry," Dante cautioned, his voice changing to a harder tone. "Stop thinkin' about my wife." His eyes narrowed in a moment's challenge. Then, he turned his hand over, and his voice modulated with the change, "We got some place to be, or what?" 

And they exited to their unmarked car waiting curbside, the subject of Mrs. Bruno Dante, closed. 

* * *

Franchetta Dante hung up her phone in its place on the kitchen wall. Calmness, affection and good feeling seemed always to be lurking just around the corner--out of her reach--anymore. 

Her eye caught the night's Prosecco, specially selected by her, with Bruno's taste in mind. (She preferred a toast with the sweeter Moscato d'Asti, herself.) She could open the Prosecco, pour it down the disposal. She thought for a moment, trying to decide whether that would make her feel better. _Doubtful_. 

She imagined drinking the bottle dry, having her own, one-person New Year's party. She wondered if she'd be drunk enough from the single bottle to upset him when he finally did come home. _Also, doubtful_. 

If the past were any indicator, she'd pass out long before his key turned in the lock--she'd even have enough time to make a few trips to the toilet to puke, and then succumb to a restless sleep by the time he got in. And next morning he'd either be gone, or oblivious to her three-alarm hangover--unless she made direct reference to it. 

Franchetta took the bottle of sparkling wine and held it in her hands, ran her thumb across the label, and sighed. She shook her head. To drink such an expensive, imported bottle intent for a special New Year's toast by oneself, with a heart full of spite, could only bring bad luck anyway. 

She tried to remember last year's turning. No, Bruno was not home then, either. Two years ago he had been asked to assist with certain needs at Times Square--asked by the mayor himself. An honor, that. How could he have refused? Three years ago he had, as promised, taken her out dancing. She had bought a new dress just for the evening, and he had surprised her by getting a dinner suit tailored for himself--and three-dozen white roses for her. But even so, an hour before the clock struck twelve, Joe Siri had cut in. He'd arrived at the club where they had gone to dance, all work and badge and duty, and told Bruno they needed him to come in right away. 

Of course he'd gone. _Of course_. She'd had to drive herself home, put herself into their lonely bed. Cry herself to sleep like a million silly other women. 

She had thought her behavior was silly then; clingy, co-dependent. After all, didn't she owe it to Bruno to be understanding? To be supportive of his job, important as it was? 

She didn't think her feelings on the subject were silly anymore. She didn't feel like she had a lot of understanding left. Those years ago she had married herself a man, made vows to a husband--not a precinct. Not a fraternal order. Not Joe Siri or Jerry Orlinsky, or any of a hundred other men she could name. Then why did her marriage feel so crowded? 

She had pledged to only one. Monogamy, that was all she wanted. She didn't think it was too much to ask. 

Prima's claws clicked on the hardwood as he entered the kitchen, ready for his evening meal. Franchetta went to fetch the dog food, and when Keeley heard the familiar noise of the hard kernels against the bowls, she chose to join in as well. 

Looking down at the two of them at their bowls, Franchetta couldn't help but wonder what would happen if she weren't here. Would that, perhaps, compel Bruno to stop by at least every once in a great while? If only to check on the dogs and let them out? 

She went to the pantry and removed her cannoli shells from their place on a shelf. As had been her mother's (and her nonna's) tradition, she had made the shells on Christmas Eve, just before midnight Mass, and stored them until today. "We eat the sorrows of the last year," her nonna had always said, "filled with the sweetness of the new, and toast the coming happiness." 

Nonna and Mama had served the pastry on January sixth, to celebrate the Epiphany, when the old woman Befana was said to go from house to house searching for the Christ Child. They had told Franchetta and the other cousins they were making the pastry for Befana, in case she should stop by and be hungry while on her journey. 

But this year Franchetta couldn't make herself wait for the sixth. She had wanted to make the cannoli early; tonight was to have been something special. It could still be something special. She clung to that hope. 

The good times of her marriage were never so far away that she could not recall them to mind--that was half the trouble, she sometimes thought. Being able to remember a now-lost attentiveness, a mid-night caress that woke her from sleep in the pleasantest of ways, even a crisp winter evening out walking the dogs together, his breath warm on her neck, her cold nose pressed into his evening-stubbled cheek--these all wore on her to the point that anymore she wondered if the memories of them did, in fact, outweigh the present grief over their lack. 

She attempted to pinpoint the last occasion they had shared together--without others milling around them, smothering her with their ubiquity. And sleeping in the same bed she ruled out. Eight hours horizontal, dead to one another, did not a marriage make. And even that was assuming they shared the same sleeping patterns, which had not been the case going on a good sixteen months now. 

All the more reason for tonight to be something--an event. The opportunity to make a turn, a resolution--together--to re-commit. She still had hope. It was a desperate hope, but it was still there--if not growing, at least maintaining--inside of her. 

After all, Bruno and Jerry would meet with their contact and then he would be home, quick as that. In fact, he _could_ be home within the hour (_how overly dramatic she had been! what silly thoughts she had been having!_)--with more than enough time to eat cannoli, toast the Prosecco, and dance until midnight in their front room, when they'd honor tradition and throw open their fifth floor window, as in the old neighborhood tossing old things out in the hopes to forget the bad of the past year and have luck and fortune in the new. And they would do it alone--together. And that would cure a world of ills. 

At the kitchen table she merrily mixed up the cannoli filling and set it in the refrigerator, seized by an urge to get dressed, lest Bruno arrive before expected. She skipped off to the bedroom, her heart (for no discernable reason) lighter, and took out a new pair of nylons and her new, sinfully crimson-colored dress with a slit up and down to places she would feel more than a little self-conscious about wearing in public. 

She still had to do something to her hair, but thought it best to fill the shells before she took it out of its twist, so she returned to the kitchen. 

* * *

Almost the very moment she set foot back on the hardwood, the phone rang. In the quiet, the loudness of the ring nearly stopped her heart. There was no need to speculate who was on the other end. "Hello?" 

"Baby," he began, his voice pitched low, hangdog. 

If he was calling, then he was nowhere near coming back to the house. She could hear sirens and other crime scene noise in the background. 

"I've got them patching me through from my car, Franny, can you hear me okay?" 

"Yes." The conversation about to occur was sure to be so familiar she could have switched herself to autopilot. 

"Jimmie Pezzini's dead, Babe." 

"Who?" She didn't ask because she really cared; only, it was the correct response to the statement offered. 

"He's was on the Job--Joe's partner. It's all bad news down here, and Jerry and I've pulled the short straw, so they've given it to us." 

He was not coming home. 

"We'll be at this most of the night." 

She heard Keeley in the other room, barking at someone in the building's hall. Everything seemed so far away, so indistinct. She stared at the cannoli shells. 

"I know, I know," Bruno went on, though she had not answered him, had not asked for further explanation. "Franchetta, _Carina_, I promised you tonight. We'll make it tomorrow, okay? I'll make you forget all about tonight. If it wasn't a Blue down--," he cut himself off, "--and don't worry, I'll keep safe. You keep safe, too, okay? Promise me." 

She wasn't worried that he was in any danger. She never was. Men like Bruno Dante weren't careless enough to get themselves killed. 

"Yes," she agreed with him, with whatever he had asked her to promise. "I got you some Prosecco for the holiday." 

"Did you?" she could hear the smile in his voice, though the radio connection was breaking up with static. "You're good to me, _Tesoro_, too good to me." 

She heard another voice come on, saying he would have to go, they needed to go over the scene before things got too cold. 

"It will keep," she assured her husband. "You're right, of course. The wine and the cannoli will still be here tomorrow night." She closed her eyes. "I love you," she told him in Italian (though his connection may already have switched off), and hung up the phone. 

* * *

Franchetta filled the pasta shells as she had planned. She took one of the crystal flutes (she had two out on the counter for the anticipated toast) and placed it back in the cabinet. 

The phone rang again. It would be Marie Siri calling, crying over the news of Officer Jimmie something or other--_Petzzini_? Franchetta didn't bother to pick it up. She was too tired. Tired of caring. She didn't have the strength to listen to Marie's usual thoughts and fears over losing Joe a similar way. 

Instead, she went to the bedroom and took out a suitcase, only to realize she couldn't think of anything she wanted to pack--anything she wanted to take with her. She took off her red dress and nylons, changed into a pair of shoes she could walk in, and something warmer on her legs. 

Her purse was where it always stayed, waiting for her to go out. She was nearly out the door when she noticed her hand, her left ring finger looking its usual, be-decked self. 

It took a moment's work to get the rings off. After all, they weren't used to being removed. The diamond she shoved into her coin purse, among her change. That would pay some bills she planned to incur. The simple platinum wedding band, in her possession since her nineteenth birthday, she took into the kitchen, where she opened the window above the sink--the one off of the fire escape that had no screen. 

It wasn't yet midnight, but she dropped the platinum circle out the window into the now-dark night, listening as the precious metal clinked and clanked upon the cast-iron gratings, steps and ladders on its way to rest in the alley below. 

Franchetta Dante locked the door behind her when she left, slipping her key back inside through the crack under the now-bolted door, lest she be tempted to make use of it again someday. 

* * *

It was nearly 4 a.m. when Bruno Dante made it through the front door of the fifth-floor apartment he shared with his wife. 

Thinking Franchetta in bed, he went to the bedroom, intent on waking her to apologize, or, if the mood took him, to watch her sleep. Pezzini was dead. For all that he was pleased by this, he had spent enough time thinking about that tonight. Bruno Dante was ready for pleasanter thoughts. 

_Sweet Maria_, but he loved to watch that woman sleep. Loved to watch her do anything. And the way she would still--after all this time--blush when she caught him at it. Her blush made him feel like somebody squeezed his heart until it caught in his throat. She worked on him in ways he figured he would never understand. 

He was fine with that. He didn't need to know or understand why the sound of her voice could smooth out wrinkles in his brow, or how the small of her back made him feel like reciting poetry. Things were what they were, and somehow, magically, this woman was his, by her own choice. He thought of the streak of white hair that grew just to the back of her ear. She colored it black, had for years, to match the rest, but yet it was like her--for all that it was concealed from most people it was there, hidden but interesting. A challenge to find, and a riddle to contemplate. That was his Franchetta. 

He put his keys quietly on a side table in the front room. He decided to wake her. He needed to apologize for the last few months--for tonight. Ever since he'd been tapped by the White Bulls, and directed to take that hit out on Pezzini, his time had seemed to be eaten away, and he knew (though he'd rather not admit it) that Franchetta had borne the brunt of that. The paper he had taken out had not specified a date for the deed, and he was feeling a little annoyed with Gallo for choosing tonight. New Year's Eve--who'd've thought? 

So he had some things to make up for. If he could've found a florist open at this hour he'd have brought flowers to aid in the apology. _Ah, who was he kidding?_ He was too tired, and too lonely for the sight of his wife to stand around waiting to have an order filled. There was something good about her he needed at the moment in the worst way, he didn't have the time or the desire to put off coming home. Throwing his coat on the couch, he made his way to their bedroom. 

But when he got there the bed was bare, save for a pair of cast-off nylons and an open--but empty--suitcase. While he took this in, puzzled, the dogs had arrived to greet him, their tails wagging nervously. Prima whined. Dante asked the air what the hell was going on. 

He followed an unusually cold draft of air into the kitchen, where the over-the-sink window had been left open. On the counter was a still-corked bottle of Prosecco and a single, unused crystal flute. The table bore a cookie sheet of cannoli, as though left out for the visiting Befana. Several had been knocked on the floor, and batted about by the dogs. 

In his line of work, Bruno Dante had seen more than his share of crime scenes, a plethora of violent struggles, bloody endings, and sadistic neglect. The scene before him was nothing like that at all. 

He went to the window, planning to shut it, but felt something--a hunch, an instinct--drawing him out onto the fire escape. Sticking his head out into the pre-dawn air, he looked down into the alley below. He could swear something winked at him, a sharp, quick reflection of streetlight. It might have been only a dirty puddle, or it might have been something more. He stepped onto the sink and out on the fire escape, determined to follow the steps down to see what might be at the bottom. 

As he stepped through the window, something dangerous began rising inside of Bruno Dante, festering like a never-quite-healed cut. It tasted very much of bile, and very much of the sour knowledge that, no matter what had been at stake, he had been a great, careless fool not to have come home that night. 

. 

_...the end..._

. 

* * *

**The Former Mrs. Bruno Dante's Midnight Mass Bittersweet Cannoli**

INGREDIENTS   
8.8oz. Almond paste   
22½oz. whole-milk Ricotta cheese (_visit Mrs. Fabrizio, the butcher on Woodman's, wife--she has a line on inexpensive-but-quality imported Ricotta through her son, Gino_)   
1½ cups whipping cream, chilled (_You'll be whipping this yourself, later--no cheating_)   
3T Amaretto liqueur (_doesn't have to be the classy stuff, so feel free to steal some from Uncle Franco's flask when he falls asleep on the sofa_)   
3T Confectioner's sugar   
1¼t. ground Cinnamon   
10oz. bittersweet Chocolate, chopped (_'Chrissy, get me the big knife!'_)   
1¼c. sliced Almonds, toasted 

METHOD   
(_Best to begin as you wait for your AWOL husband to call._)   
Blend almond paste until coarse crumbs form.   
Add Ricotta cheese. Blend.   
Combine cream, Amaretto, Confectioner's sugar and Cinnamon in separate bowl.   
(_If he takes his time calling, you may want to set this mixture aside, but keep it cold--so you don't get too far ahead of yourself_)   
_After he calls..._   
Beat cream mixture until firm peaks form. (_After the call you should have plenty of pent up anger to strengthen your arms for the beating._)   
Fold whipped cream into Ricotta mixture, adding chopped chocolate and toasted, sliced Almonds.   
(_As you wait for him to come home..._)   
Spoon mixture into pastry bag; pipe filling into cannoli shells, which you have baked and fried already (_when you were waiting for him to show up so you could leave for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve and he came home at the last minute, and didn't even have time to change out of that blasted uniform he always seems to be in_). 

. 

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Witchblade_, nor the rights to its characters. Call Warner Bros. and/or Top Cow if you want to talk to people that matter. I'm not in their employ, and I'm not making any money off of their creation. 

Thanks to cooking.com. Please visit them for other great recipes. 

* * *

by: Neftzer (c) 2002  
_Feedback Appreciated!_   
More Neftzer fiction at http://www.royaltoby.com/shack   
Read the story this precedes, _Visitation_, available here at fanfiction.net 


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